Chronicles of Omarus
by Michael Richardson
Summary: A retired mechwarrior returns to mercenary work, but discovers that his new mission is far more difficult than he had originally suspected. This is a more character-driven revision of "The Battle of Arthenis III."
1. Default Chapter

"Chronicles of Omarus" is very much just a retelling of my original work, "The Battle of Arthenis III." The major difference is that I wrote "Chronicles" for a company letter in such a way that it could be understood by a non-Mechwarrior, primarily female, audience. Please tell me what you think of "Chronicles."

**Part 1: Introduction**

Mech: short for battlemech, it is a huge machine of metal generally designed for the purpose of war, although there are some instances of mechs being used in peaceful capacities. They are the ultimate in warfare, designed with the pressures of 31st century combat in mind, and can bring a huge array of weaponry to bear on the foe of whoever pilots such a machine. And how can one fight a mech? From behind a similar shield of metal, able to dish out as well as take incredible damage. Mechs are the new foundation of warfare, used by every nation in the galaxy. They are typically 8-12 meters tall and shaped roughly like human beings, though the actual size and shape they take is limited only by imagination, and present technology.

Mechwarrior: a person crazy enough to strap himself into one of these killer giants and act as its gunner, pilot, and everything else! Trained for fast reflexes and quick minds, and to fill any number of roles on the battlefield, from scout to assault to artillery. Their motivations for fighting are as varied as those today: defend your honor, protect your clan, fight for peace and freedom, or just for money. Enter the character of this story, Omarus Aldan, retired from the battlefield and mechs. Something of a legend among mechwarriors, he is said to be one of the greatest to ever live. Now, ready to return to the battlefield, will he finally reach his full potential? Prepare to find out.

It had been six years since Omarus had retired, and he was now living the easy life back on Earth. All his contracts were handled through the secretaries, and missions were given to his underlings. The reason he had retired at the age of 26—at the prime of his career, when practically every corporation and government in sight was trying to hire him—was still something of a mystery. He claimed it was his graying hair at such a young age that brought his mortality home to him, and helped him decide that it was probably his career. Many were disappointed when Omarus retired from mercenary work; others hoped it signaled the end of the Hell Striders mercenary unit, and the return of their profit. Even so, contracts continued coming to Omarus even after his formal announcement to leave the field, for a couple years at least.

Omarus had planned on returning to the battlefield someday, but a look around showed him that the competition had grown in his absence. Jason Carberg piloted a 115-ton mech with an assortment of gauss and heavy PPC's; Carrie Grearson and her 60-ton medium with its super refractive armor that nullified any laser hits had just made headlines by storming across a continent on Unos, bringing decisive victory to the government of a planet that had seen war for ten years. Omarus's confidence in his abilities and the 100-ton Hell Strider mech he had piloted was disappearing, as he wondered if his time had passed.

It was then that he received the message. Someone had sent it with the heading "Personal Memo" instead of the usual "Contract Offer." That someone was Ronald Herman, and he knew that only one mechwarrior could help now . . .


	2. Big Questions

Part 2

Omarus scanned Ronald Herman's contract offer, disguised as a personal letter. It was only unusual in that Omarus, owner and founder of the _Hell Striders_ mercenaries, hadn't received one in two years. Otherwise, it was typical. Turbine Pascal was a new company in the Inner Sphere, the area of the galaxy colonized by humans in the last 1,000 years. The company had developed a powerful energy weapon in the year 3079 called the Particle Beam Cannon 250. Herman gave Omarus some facts about the PBC, but what he wanted was clear. Omarus was accustomed to it, and had learned to put up with it, until he retired. After all, graying hair, which is the reason he gave the press, wasn't quite the full story of why he quit. Herman's letter went on.

_To come to the point, fourteen years ago I came under the employment of the company Allied Armaments, which is one of the larger manufacturers of long-range energy weapons in the Inner Sphere. I have been assigned with the task of acquiring the technology for producing the PBC's. Most IS governments agree that Pascal's control over the market must end, and so Allied has been enlisted as the official . . ._

Omarus felt no surprise. His suspicions were confirmed. Like usual, mercenaries were the tools "respectable companies" invariably turned to when they couldn't get ahead on their own. Companies like Allied Armaments kept the Hell Striders in business. The letter went on, but the contract itself wasn't what Omarus was thinking about. It was merely part of the bigger question: was it time to go back?

From the beginning, he had wondered if it was the right thing to do. He had a passion for fighting, for piloting the mechs, for being in that metal cockpit, up above the world, looking down on everything. He loved the mechs, and getting into the electronics and rewiring them. But he also had a conscience. He'd murdered people by the dozens in exchange for money. And it was wrong, and he couldn't live with it anymore.

Omarus stood at the window of his room, looking out at the wind and remembering. The dust called to mind patrols in deserts, or snowy mountains on nameless distant planets. Planet Beberk, where he was hired to patrol and defend a city and once tapped the jump jets sending the mech 40 meters up in almost nonexistent gravity. The storm he once rode out on the same planet, fierce enough to kill an unprotected human being, with different colored lightning flashing all around the mech—green, blue, and red miraculously created in the torrent of ions brought with the storm.

And then he reminded himself of the things he had done. He had killed people. He had destroyed entire villages, entire towns, all for the sake of the C-bill, money of the 31st century. But why should he care? Most mechwarriors had lost any sign of a conscience years before. A conscience wasn't good business.

Omarus did care. And at the same time, he couldn't turn his back on what just felt so right. The rush of adrenaline as he sat back in the seat he'd been away from for so long; the computerized female voice speaking to him as he turned the mech on—"Reactor: online. Weapons: online. Sensors: online. All systems nominal." It was all so right. The sounds, the freshness of battle, the smell of steel . . .

Was it right to be mechwarrior again, or to stop killing people? Was it possible that both were right? For that was what it felt like, and it was impossible to decide when right and wrong weren't quite clear. He wondered what his father would have to say.


End file.
